


what is lost will be found

by haloud



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Emotional Sex, M/M, Oral Fixation, Post-1x01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Michael and Alex leave the reunion together, but they don't make it home before their own reunion gets the best of them.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	what is lost will be found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chasingshadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingshadows/gifts).



> title comes from when the truth hunts you down by sam tinnesz, of course. for chasing, my favorite enabler <3 <3 <3

They don’t make it home; they don’t make it anywhere. They make it about halfway through the no-man’s-land between city limits and the start of ranch land, Michael’s eyes on the road and nowhere else just in case, when Alex puts his hand on Michael’s thigh and says, voice low and firm, “Pull over.”

Michael doesn’t hesitate, jerking the wheel, both of them bouncing harsh in their seats when they leave the road for rougher terrain. With a deep breath, Michael relaxes his grip and pulls more carefully to give them a little more privacy from the main drag. He throws the car into park, and as soon as he’s reaching for the keys Alex twists and opens the door.

Alex doesn’t waste any time. His boots hit the ground with an authoritative thump, and as Michael scrambles after him, Alex fetches one of Michael’s blankets. Like the spring of senior year was yesterday and they were spending the afternoon all tucked together in the pretty, dusty sunlight, he lays it out across the bed of the truck, then his eyes go up to lock on Michael’s, and Michael can see the bob of his throat in the moonlight, the stubborn fix of his jaw.

Then he drops his eyes, shrugs off his jacket, and Michael can’t help but fall into him. Cupping his jaw, Michael kisses him, mouths open, shuddering at the stroke of his tongue, knees trembling as he fists the new-rough flannel of Alex’s shirt.

“Guerin,” Alex gasps, and Michael devours the sound before he can say anything else, kissing him until his lips are numb, cheeks flushed against the wind, dizzy and weak with the kneading of Alex’s fingers through his hair and against his scalp, with the scent in his lungs and the taste that fills his mouth and he swallows hungrily down his throat.

“Guerin,” he repeats, panting harshly. He tugs Michael’s head back by the hair, and Michael moans through parted lips, tilting back into the pull. He’ll go anywhere, stay anywhere Alex puts him just for the touch of those hands, to feel the way his body thrills to every bit of contact.

“Alex,” he breathes back into Alex’s mouth the next time they pull apart, and Michael runs his tongue over his teeth, over his lips, searching for more of the taste Alex leaves on his mouth, blood pumping loud in his ears.

Alex has hold of a fistful of Michael’s collar, and he doesn’t relax it, like he thinks Michael might bolt if he lets him go. His eyes are focused on Michael’s mouth, and for all it feels swollen and bruised Michael knows he must look wrecked in the moonlight, because that’s just how he feels.

“How do you want me?” Michael almost begs, but dignity is fucking overrated. He hears Alex saying _what I want doesn’t matter,_ in a voice so firm and sure it could make any lie into an absolute truth. He’ll be down on his knees, hands and knees, on his back, in a matter of seconds if Alex tries to say it again, ready once more to use his body to prove him wrong, the only evidence he has to plead his case.

Alex swallows, works his jaw a little bit, makes a decision. His shoulders set, and he says, “I want your mouth. You’ve already reminded me how _smart_ it can be tonight; I’d like a refresher on its other talents.”

And Michael can’t help but laugh, bright into the dark sky, relieved and light and eager, and so fucking _happy_ to have Alex here with him, again. He spends half his life begging to be put in his place by someone who won’t use it to hurt him, but Alex is the only one who rewards him for it, with the push and pull that they’ve been playing out since Alex went to war.

He’ll leave again, he always does. But while he’s here, Michael will take a hit, and take a hit, and ride the high all the way into the ground.

“Oh yeah?” Michael says, going down. “I that forgettable?”

Alex considers him for a slow moment. His eyes are amber in the clear moonlight, face unreadable. But his hands are fucking full of words, spilling sentences and sentiments all the fuck everywhere as he reaches out and strokes Michael’s forward, skims through his curls to cradle his temple in one strong hand.

“Not likely,” he says, voice as dry and steady as ever.

Michael kneels there in the dirt, looking up at Alex, heart in his throat. His lips part but he has nothing to say, no sarcastic retort. He just leans into that hand, nudges Alex to guide him forward so he can get down to business, to the main event.

“Wait,” Alex says, and then that hand is gone, leaving Michael feeling light-headed in its absence.

He huffs. “Are you going to let me suck your dick or not?”

“Patience is a virtue, Guerin.”

Then Alex’s jacket hits him right in the chest, and he fumbles it before managing to hug it to himself, blinking up at Alex’s lovely face once again.

“Kneel on that,” he says, absolutely nothing about his posture or his expression suggesting he’s about to take no for an answer.

It’s stupid. Michael’s jeans are already dirty, and he didn’t even think twice about the sacrifice, and Alex’s jacket isn’t anywhere near thick enough to actually provide a cushion, and it’s _nice,_ does Michael deserve to get it dirty? It’s…

“Are you going to argue with me?” Alex asks, and Michael’s answer is almost always yes, but this...this feels just enough like being taken care of that, just this once, he keeps his mouth shut.

He lays the jacket down and crawls onto it, then, tongue between his teeth, Michael slowly pops the button on Alex’s jeans, not looking anywhere but where his fingers are working, tugging down the zipper, brushing the soft cotton of his underwear beneath it. Then he’s gripping the waistband, ready to help Alex shimmy his pants down; then there’s a hand twisting _hard_ in his hair, jerking his head up, until the only thing he sees is Alex’s face, his stern, aloof expression, those dark, dilated eyes, his red mouth.

“That’s enough,” he says, and Michael drops his hands to grip Alex’s strong thighs instead.

“I—”

“You’ve got plenty of room to work with. Show me some of that resourcefulness, Guerin.”

Michael curls his hand around Alex’s waistband again, needing something to hold on to if not allowed to feel skin under his hands. He runs his tongue along his chapped lower lip, considering a plan of attack, considering how he’ll make Alex pull his hair, lock his legs around him, wanting, needing to feel the contrast now in the feel of heels digging into his back—it’s a part of Alex he hasn’t felt before, and he won’t be satisfied until he has it filed away inside his head, plastered on the inside of his skull, like every other part of Alex he’s ever been given.

His truck’s suspension creaks faintly as Alex shifts his weight, and that tiny show of impatience has Michael shuffling forward so clumsily he almost falls forward on his hands, nose and mouth pressed into the cotton of his boxers, feeling the heat there even through the high flush on his own face, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut. The best part of sex is always the delicious slide of skin on skin, feeding a hunger Michael feels more constant and acute than any need for pleasure that might have him chasing sex. But, sometimes, when it’s Alex, he has to ease himself into it for fear of losing himself to the _shock_ of feeling him, burning through ever nerve and reducing his mind to a desperate, animal whine.

Alex’s hand ruffles through his curls, mussing up the back of his head, petting rather than grabbing, and Michael moans into a mouthful of fabric, laving his tongue across the hardness he can already feel growing beneath. Then, he finally gets his hand involved, shifting Alex’s boxers down and out of the way, freeing his thick cock to the night air. Alex lets out a long sigh, hand falling to grip Michael’s shoulder.

Taking Alex’s cock in hand, Michael strokes it, runs his thumb over the tip, cherishing the way he fits in his palm, the tightness he can already feel in Alex’s thighs, and he presses soft, dry kisses to the side of his shaft, down as close as he can get to the base with his jeans in the way, zipper rough against his throat. He sneaks a taste of that hot, velvety skin with just the tip of his tongue, leaving each spot to get cold when he moves on, making Alex’s hands tighten hard on him.

“Fuck, Guerin,” Alex says.

His name sounds so fucking _good_ out of Alex’s mouth. It brings the flush back up to his face, and he has to look up, watch Alex’s face as he kisses and licks at his dick, feel the heady weight of those eyes on him, only him, _just_ him, in a way that satisfies every needy, selfish crevice of his heart.

“ _Guerin,_ ” Alex says again, and he almost chokes on it. The bob of his throat is silver in the moonlight.

Michael drops his eyes, then, and focuses back on the task at hand. He runs his thumb over the head again, catching the beading wetness there and dragging it down the side, chasing it with his tongue, licking up the salt, mouth watering for more.

Then he wraps his hand all the way around Alex’s cock, sliding it down at the same time he wraps his mouth around the tip and sinks down after it, engulfing his dick in sensation and heat and friction. He goes after it, he sucks in quick, steady pulses, he rolls his tongue across the surface everywhere he can, he puts on the best show he knows how while Alex leans back against the cold metal of his truck and grunts his approval.

Next time Michael goes down he gets the angle wrong on purpose, letting the head of Alex’s cock bump the back of his throat, making himself gag just enough. Alex might be making him do all the work, but he wants, _needs_ to talk rough for days after now, to feel the roughened, swollen soft parts of him, needs the soreness.

And it makes Alex’s hand grip his hair hard enough to pull him back a little, makes him direct him to a softer angle, makes his thighs shake under him and makes him swallow around Alex’s cock in wet, grateful pulls. Alex’s hand stays holding him tight, and his eyes fall shut, burrowing down under the sensation of having his mouth _full,_ his focus fucking honed down to its sharpest point, on nothing but the pleasure he can give, every trick he’s ever learned, until even the throbbing in his own groin fades into the background. He curls his fists in to Alex’s jacket under his knees.

Every breath out of Alex’s lungs ends on a moan. He keeps his legs carefully spread, not caging Michael in between them all safe and tight like he normally likes, but that’s just fine. Michael can still massage his thighs, roll his thumb up the inseam right to the top where he digs in to the delicate place where his leg meets his hip, then reverse and skim his palms down the outsides, all the way to his ankles and back up again. He hasn’t been told if it’s okay to touch Alex’s prosthetic leg, and he should, he should ask first, tries to ask with his eyes rather than his voice, trusts Alex to pull back and tell him no, but Alex just tips his head back and moans _Guerin_ into the night sky when Michael flicks his tongue against the sensitive spot just beneath his head.

Michael has missed this, missed it so fucking bad, he never gets to savor it like this if it’s a quick fuck behind a bar or in some strange bed or, hell—he hums around his mouthful—out in the anonymous desert, under the stars. But when it’s _Alex,_ it’s all savor, every time, no matter how frantic they are, how little time they ever have.

Stupidly sentimental, he never swallows, either, if it isn’t Alex. He just…doesn’t.

Alex’s hand slips down to massage the back of his neck, so fucking tender it’s not just the pressure on his throat making tears prick in his eyes. His cock _throbs_ hot and full on Michael’s tongue, and Michael moans around him, not wanting it to end but _needing_ the rush, the completion, the taste, everything, everything, everything. So he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t tease or draw it out, he bobs down as deep and close as he can possibly go with his throat buzzing and his lips touching cotton and the teeth of Alex’s zipper cold on his skin, and Alex jerks up, shouts, comes hard, shuddering and clutching and every bit as desperate as Michael feels.

And as soon as Michael swallows, there are hands tugging at him, Alex calling him up and on his feet on wobbling legs and sore knees. Alex jerks his jeans open, rucks down his underwear; he hisses when he gets a hand around Michael and feels him, how hard and wet he’s gotten all through serving him, how ready he already is. Alex’s hand is the perfect roughness, the perfect texture and rhythm, the harsh sound of his breathing the perfect background music, and Michael has the perfect taste on the back of his tongue.

When he comes, Alex collects it all in his hand and pulls Michael back down by his shirt so he can feet it to him, finger by finger, until Michael has licked his hand clean of his own come.

And he speaks, when he does it, he says, “This is mine too,” he says, “That’s two you’ve swallowed down for me, you’re so fucking good, Guerin, fuck, you’re—"

And all Michael can say is “Alex,” that’s all he says. Just Alex.

And then they lay together for a long time, Michael in Alex’s lap, arms around his waist, Alex’s hands roaming every part of him he can touch, until the color starts to fade back into the world, and they disengage, button back up, and Michael gets back behind the wheel. Without needing to be told, he turns them around, and heads back into town.

The entire drive, Alex holds his jacket in his lap and runs his thumb over one of the streaks of desert dirt, flaking bits off onto the seat and staining his thumb.

Michael parks at the venue. Same spot. The lights are down, and the few cars in the lot either belong to people who got cabs instead or other people taking their chance to get a hit of carnal nostalgia.

Like he might’ve done at seventeen if he dropped Alex off after a date and their world had front porches and left the light on for them, Michael watches until Alex gets safely into his own car, turns the key, and drives away.

**Author's Note:**

> of course, what happened at the reunion can't happen again.


End file.
